Growing up first generation Irish in Manchester, our view of Ireland, its history and culture, didn’t even reach the levels of accuracy of the misty Gaelic nonsense of a Riverdance performance.

We mainly got it courtesy of films like Darby O’Gill And The Little People and The Fighting Prince Of Donegal.

Later, as we got more sophisticated. We worked our way up to The Quiet Man, starring John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara, with its winning portrayal of drunkenness, wife beating, fist fights and happy-go-lucky IRA men.

My dad Danny, who grew up in a ­tenement in Dublin, threw in the odd ­mention of legendary Irish High King Brian Boru and the Battle of Vinegar Hill.

But his grasp of history wasn’t great and I’m still not certain he didn’t think Brian Boru actually fought at Vinegar Hill (Boru died in 1014, the battle was in 1798).

My mother Margaret was a great reader and would ensure we went to the library.

But there was no championing of Irish literature. I remember her seeing me ­reading The Picture of Dorian Gray and commenting: “ Oscar Wild e – ooh wasn’t he a big puff?”.

I remember he picked up a few quid when Yer Man ­finished third in the 1983 Grand National at odds of 80/1. But I can assure you that on the whole his was a very poor system.

Mum was much less of a cheerleader for all things green. She came over to Manchester aged four and her youngest brother was born there. Ever after he was referred to by their mother Bridget as the “English bastard”.

As children we would get sent a pile of semi-rotten and yellowing shamrocks to wear on our lapels every year for St Patrick’s Day by our Aunty Mag in Dublin, which we all thought was really exciting.

We found the novena of masses she sent every Christmas less so.

Growing up in England we all felt vaguely proud of being of Irish stock.

Then when we visited ­relatives in Dublin we ended up in fights with local kids because we were seen as English.

The Irish are possibly the biggest ethnic minority in Britain and culturally our ­upbringings are different and yet unrecognised.

So if we do happen to knock back a few too many on St Patrick’s Day, give us a break.